The Return of a Riddle
by Secre
Summary: Harry Potter didn't get to the Chamber of Secrets in time; Tom Riddle is back and determined to be stronger and greater than his other self ever managed. The world is about to become a very different place. (Rated T for safety more than anything.)
1. The Return of a Riddle

_To those who might have read my previous pieces on here; I promise I have not given up on them or on you. I have oft thought of trying to update them but kept getting sidetracked by shiny things that pay better than fanfic. Not hard really. However, I have three weeks off work now and I earnestly promise that in that time an update on_ _ **I Did Nothing**_ _will be forthcoming. It's been a while, I know. A long while. Umm...oops. Sorry about that. Pinky promises. In the meanwhile, this was an idea that hit me like a rock and wouldn't let go. You can therefore thank it for the reason I've re-surfaced after all these months and then felt really guilty about the unfinished stories which have been left languishing and not-quite-forgotten. I hated it when writers did that to me! I will also attempt to have a go at_ _ **Giving Up**_ _but we'll see how that goes._ _ **I Did Nothing**_ _is a sworn promise though._

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 **Chapter 1: The Return of a Riddle**

The diary that had held both his life form and his soul lay useless and drained on the floor beneath his feet, much like the silly little girl who had last held it. After so long confined and imprisoned beyond any reach of influence in the world he is free, finally free from the chains that bound him for so many years. Tom Riddle stands alone in the cavernous and dreary chamber, only the diary beneath his feet and the girl's body to keep him company, and he rejoices silently. The girl had managed to be useful after all. She may have been weak but she had turned out to be a veritable fountain of knowledge. Knowledge that he had sorely needed, for no longer was it 1954. Even trapped within that thrice damned diary he couldn't have anticipated just how much time had passed or just how much had occurred in those forty years.

Yes, the girl had been most useful in the end, despite all her childish whining and caterwauling. She was after all at least partially responsible for his return, although of course more credit lay with his own self. But she had admittedly provided some useful information for the newly returned Tom Riddle. Unwittingly of course, but there had been some gems within her childish wittering and heart-sick foolery. The most staggering was the discovery of the knowledge of his own downfall some ten years back from the present day. At the hands of a child no less. A babe barely a year old. It was near unbelievable, but he didn't doubt the girl was telling the truth. She had not the wits nor the guile to make-up a lie of that magnitude, even if he wasn't adept at reading the truths behind such lies.

Just as remarkable though was that the same child had managed it again and only last year. One Harry Potter had stood against Lord Voldemort a second time, eleven years old and armed with only a first year's knowledge of spells. And he had bested Lord Voldemort. It had not surprised Tom that his shade had survived the Killing Curse even if his body hadn't, after all was that not why he had created this diary in the first place? To ensure immortality. His soul split into exactly seven pieces, scattered across the world to ensure that he, Tom Riddle, would live forever. And it had worked. Here he stood. He always had been destined for greatness. The Heir of Salazar Slytherin had come again.

Kicking the diary contemptuously away, the seventeen year old paced impatiently across the Chamber of his revival, the Chamber of Secrets. Why hadn't the boy come? The glimpse of him that Tom had so frustratingly briefly got had cemented his plans, he had been sure it would work, he had been sure the Potter boy would come. He might even have succeeded in taking the boy's life force instead of having to use this useless girl's life force instead had she not panicked and retrieved the diary from the boys dormitory, the foolish mudblood lover. The Weasley's and the Prewitt's always had been a waste of good wizarding blood.

But even then, he had been certain that the boy would come. And wouldn't that have been sweet. The child who had destroyed the great Lord Voldemort being solely responsible for the Dark Lord's return. The circle complete. After the girls lovesick prattling about how Potter had rushed to save the Philosophers Stone from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named because no one would listen to him last year, Tom had been certain that he would rush to save the idiotic girl. After all, she was his best friend's sister which had to be worth more than a stone that the child could barely understand. But the boy didn't show.

Tom had riffled through the foolish girls mind in her dying moments, mindlessly shredding all that didn't interest him and instead taking the few worthwhile thoughts and memories. He'd learned a lot in those brief moments, only taking account of her shallow and laboured breathing or her weak and faltering heart as an indication of how long he had left. So when her heart finally stuttered to a halt and her last breath caught and rattled to a close, Tom Riddle arose triumphantly. The girl's death meant less than nothing to him, she was merely a pawn to be taken and used before being discarded. What he had learned from her in those final helpless moments was almost worth Potter not having arrived. Lord Voldemort would rise again, greater and stronger than he had ever been before, unhampered by a child's luck or a mothers sacrifice. And when he did, the first to die would not be Potter. No, Potter would join him or die regardless, another pawn to be disposed of at will. The first to die would be Severus Snape.

Not yet though. Loyal to Dumbledore the man might be, but he could perhaps still be useful. For Tom Riddle needed access to Hogwarts after all, he needed access to the books of course but most importantly he needed access to the knowledge. The knowledge stored in the bricks and foundations of this ancient place as well as only in the crevices of others minds. First, a chance of name and most certainly appearance would be needed. Of everyone alive, that old fool Dumbledore would surely recognise Lord Voldemort's younger self even after forty years, he had no doubts about that. After all, his other self had successfully ensured he was renowned the whole world over before conveniently dying. After teaching him for so many years, Tom Riddle's face was not one the old wizard would be soon to forget even without the advantage of a Pensieve for an addled mind. But that would be easy enough, there were basic charms after all for the very short term and the Weasley girl had told him that Knockturn Alley hadn't gone anywhere.

The most important hurdle of all would be finding the other horcruxes, if they even existed after all these years. In fact, had his older self completed his aim to create the seven horcruxes that he had planned in the halls of this very castle all those years ago? He'd had thirty years though, surely that would have been enough time to create and hide them? What he had used and where they were hidden were of the highest priority to Tom Riddle now. Until he had the other horcruxes, he couldn't be complete, couldn't be whole. He would be forever competing with his other self, wherever his other self was now skulking and plotting, for surely he would be plotting. That couldn't be allowed to happen. The horcruxes had to be his.

Whether he would be able to amalgamate the horcruxes back into his own soul was something he would have to research, although carefully. He would have to avoid the unwanted attention that such a request would openly get him. Even Horace Slughorn had been wary, and that was before the reign of Lord Voldemort. But those horcruxes either had to be his or they had to be destroyed. They were fragments of his other self's very soul after all, and the only person who would ever be able to rival Lord Voldemort was Lord Voldemort. And he would be the only Tom Riddle, the only Lord Voldemort. His other self had had its chance after all. Now it was his turn. Nobody would deny him that. Lord Voldemort would reign supreme once more.

But first he had to get out of this chamber. Of course he knew the way out of the castle but to succeed he would have to be invisible. To be seen now, at this first critical juncture would foul all of his plans and that simply could not be permitted. Greatness would be his and no mere child would stand in his way. Without any hesitation, Tom Riddle riffled through the dead girls robes until he found her wand; she hardly needed it any longer after all. He would certainly need his own wand, but for now this one would do as a temporary stop gap. Common sense indicated that he would need to dispose of it quickly anyway; it would not do his cause any favours if the mother or brother spotted him holding it after all.

Regardless, it would not have been his own choice; chestnut, a weak wood with no real qualities or strengths of its own making, instead entirely reliant on the owner's disposition and the core held within it. A wand for those subject to change, easily swayed and dominated. The core of course he couldn't be sure of, but his guess was Dragon heart string; an Ollivander wand for certain and Ollivander only regularly used three cores. Unicorn hair ought to repel him even at this age and he couldn't see the girl having the fire for phoenix feather. Granted he couldn't see her having the power or the temperament for Dragon heart string, but he had been known to be mistaken occasionally.

The charms to alter his appearance sufficiently to cause no undue second glances or hastily forbidden association with his other self were easy enough however, regardless of the quality of the wand used. With a lazy wave of the wand Tom Riddle transfigured a rock into a looking glass and smiled. The figure looking back at him was a good half foot shorter than Tom Riddle had been at full growth and a good three stone larger. Certainly not fat for he would not countenance that, but the sharp contours and his aristocratic facial structure had been easily hidden behind a layer of puppy fat that the orphanage never allowed for all those years ago. A longer nose and slightly rounded chin acted further against anyone recognising the sharp faced teenager he once had been and the final change to complete the look; framing his new face was long blonde hair stopping just short of his shoulders. Not bad looking, even perhaps handsome to some tastes, but the thin, angular dark haired boy was gone. The only thing left untouched was his eyes. His dark, expressive eyes remained unchanged.

His fears about getting out of Hogwarts castle also proved to be unfounded and the route out was simpler than he could have imagined. He still knew all the secret passages and tunnels out of the castle although there were certainly some new ones he would have yet to learn, but to a place as historic and ancient as Hogwarts, forty years was a mere blink in space and time. Some tunnels may have been blocked off, but the One-Eyed Witch was still there and all of the corridors were completely empty of any life whether student or staff. Even the ghosts of the castle were nowhere to be seen. There was almost no need for his subterfuge with his appearance as he didn't see a soul, alive or dead, in any of the deserted and silent corridors. Not one being crossed his path as he slipped through the One-Eyed-Witch unseen and unnoticed.

By the time the young Harry Potter had escaped his Defence Against the Dark Arts Professors office, he was already too late although he didn't know it yet. Running instead to the Acting Headmistress in search of adult help after the disastrous experience with Professor Lockhart took more time than the young Miss Weasley had. He found the Chamber of Secrets and the key to unlock the concealed entrance with the ghost of Tom Riddle's first victim watching in fascination with Professor McGonagall and the heads of house at his back. But the Professors only found Ginny Weasley's unmarked body and an old, battered diary with no words written within it when they went down the tunnel, leaving the two teenagers waiting safely above. No sign of an attack, no sign of magic, no sign of anything.

Despite the Potter boys recognition of the diary as one that wrote back to him, even took him into some form of memory of the first time the Chamber was opened, the diary seemed to hold no hidden secrets. The young boys words were eventually dismissed as grief stricken fantasies, and the knowledge of Hagrid's involvement with the original Chamber of Secrets as a forgotten conversation with the gamekeeper. Everyone knew of his attachment to the man. And despite Professor Flitwick's most earnest efforts, the diary was in turn dismissed as just that; an old, forgotten diary, somehow hidden in the bowls of the school.

Something had happened, the discovery of Ginny Weasley's body proved that.

But Tom Riddle was gone and nobody would suspect he had ever been there.


	2. A Special Case

_Now that I've finally managed to write and post an update for **I Did Nothing** , I don't feel guilty about posting this either! Many thanks to the four reviewers; your input is very, very much appreciated. **Guest** , you're correct that Tom would not know that there are definitely seven horcruxes, but seven is a magically powerful number so seven was the original plan. All Tom doesn't know is whether all seven were actually created. That is something he needs to find out. **NatNicole** , in reality the answer to that question is that I didn't think of it, but rationalising it into the story, the diary now means nothing to him and things that mean nothing to Tom Riddle lie discarded and forgotten. He is at the end of the day a teenager, a smart one, but a teenager alas and teenagers are known for not fully thinking things over (as alas are authors), and even Dark Lords in Training can be susceptible to that. **Rosa Mundi** I hope you do read on; it's not a conventional fanfic, but it should be a good journey regardless! And finally, **JOdel** \- you certainly gave me food for thought. I hadn't thought of the memories being after Myrtle dying either. That is certainly something I'll keep in mind because yes, you're right, the logic doesn't quite line up on the canon view, does it? But yes, it wouldn't even need to be a paper pensieve, after all, magical diaries must have qualities the muggles version would not. So if the diary was created at age sixteen that is the age at which Riddle would manifest as... My brain is whirring._

 _Thanks again and I look forwards to more reviews I hope._

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 **Chapter 2: A Special Case**

Garrick Ollivander was absent-mindedly polishing stock-piled wands in the back room of the shop that had been in his family for decades when the front entrance wards chimed loudly, alerting him that someone had entered. Glancing at the time piece hanging over the left wall in irritation, he replaced the wand he was currently handling to its rightful place carefully before standing slowly. Polishing wands was a relaxing and mind-numbing task, and one he had intended to peruse all afternoon, dealing with other wizards was neither relaxing nor mind-numbing. This late on in the term it likely meant that some careless youth had snapped or damaged their wand and was looking for a replacement before the end of year examinations.

So few young witches and wizards seemed to be able to recognise the value or the uniqueness of their wands and were far too careless with them. It had always been so, much to Ollivander's disgust, and there seemed little he could do about it. The Purebloods were taught that it was their Merlin given right to own a wand since before they could even walk, rarely did their parents teach them that you could never truly own a wand. Perhaps their parents had been lucky enough never to discover that the difficult way. The muggleborns were oft too awestruck with this whole new world that they had no idea existed before they were thrust into it so suddenly at the tender age of eleven, so much was new and exhilarating to them that the wand was just an instrument to make the wonders happen. So few treated their wand with the respect and wonder it itself deserved; far too careless the lot of them.

Stepping out of the back room and into the small, almost pokey customer areas though, the eldery man stopped in confusion. It was true that he never forgot a single wand he had sold, but he had over the years cultivated an impressive aura of omnipotence by never forgetting a face either, not to mention an ability to place a face almost instantly in the family line where it belonged. This was largely the result of an exceptional memory and a keen sense of observation. Once in a while a child came in who was the spitting likeness of one parent or another, last year for example saw young Mister Potter and Mister Malfoy, but often or not he didn't need that. If you were observant enough you could judge off the facial features such as the set of the eyes, brows or cheek bones. More telling still were the tics and mannerisms passed from father to son, mother to daughter and sometimes down generations; the flick of the hair or flutter of the hands.

But the young man who stood by the door of his shop casually and at ease was not one that Ollivander recognised at all, despite his age being that of a mostly grown teenager. He had certainly never served this youth before and would suspect he did not know the family either, despite having decade's worth of memory banks storing the faces and wands of wizards and witches to call upon in an instant. Bereft of any opening line to suggest prior knowledge, there was a moment of silence that seemed to fill the closed and dusty room.

"Mister Ollivander," the blonde young man broke the silence first, speaking with a faint Germanic accent which the older man thought he seemed to be attempting to swallow. "I fear that I find myself in need of a new wand. I hear you are quite the master in these parts and wondered if you would be able to help me."

"I am the only master in these parts," the wandmaster responded smoothly and proudly. "My wands are known to be second to none and for good reason. You have come to the right place." He looked the young man over critically for a long moment, from the long blonde hair immaculately framing the slightly chubby face to the piercing dark eyes and shoulders set back confidently. "I fear you have me at a disadvantage though, young sir. I do not recall your family name."

Ollivander waited a moment for the response to his query, and noted with some astonishment that the young man met his pale gaze without flinching or blinking. His pale eyes with their piercing and unwavering gaze were another source of his reputation, yet this customer seemed utterly unperturbed as his dark eyes locked gazes with Ollivander's own. Those eyes seemed somehow familiar.

"Oh, please accept my sincere apologies for my rudeness," the youngster stated confidently, without hesitation.

He had an assurance that seemed unusual in one so young to Ollivander, an ageless quality that was almost disturbing although he wouldn't have been able to say how or why.

"My name is Thomas…" the young man cleared his throat sharply, harshly and the older wizard didn't think he imagined the faint blush creeping up the boys pale skin. "I am Thomas…" Another harsh guttural sound. "I am of the house of…"

The crack in his voice was unmistakeable this time as he halted his hands movement to his throat with obvious effort, the flush becoming more noticeable. Ollivander could think of a few charms that would stop someone repeating certain information, but rarely would they be applicable to family titles or names. That would be in the realms of the Kinship Curses or Magical Disinheritance.

"I find myself apologising once more, sir," he finished softly, his gaze finally leaving Ollivanders own and reaching the wooden floor. His words were suddenly slow and hesitant as his eyes flickered up and then back to the ground. "I appear unable to name myself according to my family house and blood right by birth. It would appear that my father's curse was more than simply angry words said in haste."

His dark eyes met Ollivanders once more, briefly before darting to the side with obvious shame and a measure of frustration. The old wandmaker couldn't help but feel for the lad. So composed and formal. But no wonder he seemed odd.

"For now, it appears I must just be Thomas," his words were spoken with a bitter smile. "I suppose I should be glad that my father has allowed me that small mercy."

"So you are disowned?" Ollivander asked bluntly, almost carelessly if it had not been deliberate.

Part of him wanted to force a reaction from this stiff backed young man, as well as testing automatically for untruths. You could learn more from a wizards reactions than from his words. This young man was clearly a Pureblood of an old family, or else at least a family trying to be seen as such. And not local for sure. And, Ollivander realised with a sudden wave of shame at his own intrusiveness, completely alone. There would be nobody waiting outside the window or down the street for him.

"It would appear so," the young man replied, unsurprisingly stiffly holding his hands out almost in supplication. "I probably ought to have surmised as much from the moment the old man snapped my wand in half. I, well, I find myself in need of both a wand and a name therefore, although you can only furnish me with the former."

Ollivander couldn't hide the shudder of revulsion and horror at this image this invoked for him. That poor wand, innocent of any wrong-doing, impartial in any dispute, doing only what it's owner required of it, responding immediately to its owners will. So many hours of work to create, so much energy and will held within the new creation waiting to burst forth. Snapped so cruelly to atone for a sons mistakes and a fathers rage. Irreplaceable. Such a waste. Careless mishandling would almost be better. Such wanton destruction, senseless vandalism was heart-breaking.

"Do you have the pieces?" he heard himself ask this boy, Tom, gruffly. Perhaps something could be recovered or even restored from them, new made of old, although he doubted it. Once destroyed a wand was often irreparable. Even those where the cores could be rescued were rarely what they had once been, often completely unsuitable for the previous owner. Heart-breaking waste. "If so, bring them forwards. I will see what I can do."

"Father threw them on the fire. Caused quite the firecracker display," Tom stated shortly and bluntly with a sharp shake of his head. His tone was glib, almost too glib, but Ollivander didn't miss the haunted, shadowed look that crossed his face at the memory. "Apparently a disgrace to his wizarding blood doesn't deserve a wand."

"How…unfortunate," Ollivander muttered, more to himself than anyone else. After all, even though the wand would likely have been irreparable it would still have had highly magical qualities he could have siphoned at worst. His tone gained the impassive cordiality back again. "Ah well, there's nothing else for it then. You'll need to be measured of course. But I'm sure we can find something to suit. You aren't the first and I'm sure you won't be the last."

After a couple of minutes of the usual tape measure flitting about every section of the customer, taking measurements from the circumference of the skull to the length between the nostrils, Ollivander was ready to go. He already had a selection of boxes down awaiting the attention of the young wizard and passed the first of them across. Wand after wand after wand was tried, some of them barely brushing the young wizards fingertips before being snatched back. He eliminated unicorn hair immediately, it simply didn't sit with the boy and almost seemed repelled by him which was unusual although not unheard of.

"Ah, a tricky customer," the old man crooned softly, glee lighting his eyes at this unexpected challenge on what had promised to be a dull and uninspiring morning. Wand after wand after wand was tried, discarded and quickly but carefully placed back into its box. More boxes were gathered, boxes including rarer woods and different amounts or aspects of the cores he favoured. "A challenge, eh. Never fear, never fear. I haven't failed to find a suitable wand yet in over half a decade."

The pile of boxes around them grew steadily larger, but Ollivander's patience seemed limitless, unending as he darted in and out of the back storeroom with more specialist stock; wands made from rarer woods, wands made by lesser wand masters which still showed promise, wnads made using untested or unexplored methods. With that unnerving spark in his eyes he thrust wand after wand at the youth, only to once more snatch them back mere seconds later. There were several that seemed promising to Tom, but he had to admit that none had the ease of what his own wand of all those years had, the power that he craved or the dexterity and flexibility that he was after.

None of them gelled with his very being in the same way that his old wand had. They would have done, but they would not have been his in the same way as his own, they would not have matched his capabilities as well as possible. They would have been tools rather than mates and Ollivander seemed to recognise this as surely as Tom himself did, although he didn't recognise the reason behind it. Finally he stopped and stared at the young man for what seemed like hours in a fashion that would have made a lesser mortal look aside.

"A special case," he muttered quietly, thoughtfully, glancing once more into the back room. "Enough woods take to you easily enough I think. It is the cores that refuse. Unicorn repels, Phoenix won't bond, Dragon cowers. None are right. What was your original wands core?" He asked suddenly, sharply.

"Phoenix feather, sir," the young man replied without hesitation. A wistful smile seemed to twitch upon his mouth. "A fine wand as well. Polished it twice a day, looked almost new."

"Hmmm," the older man murmured. "Loyalty perhaps. An unusual trait to be found so strongly in one so young, mind. But an admirable one, indeed. That may be why the phoenix cores won't bond. They sense you are too strongly bound still to another. Time may change that of course. Or it may not." He looked once more at the young man standing so confidently in his store, no home, no family, not even a name to call himself. A special case indeed. "Perhaps."

He strode out to the back rooms of his store more slowly this time and was gone for many minutes longer. When he came back there were not mountains of boxes resting in his thin arms, but only three. Three boxes held almost reverently. Placing the boxes on the counter more carefully than ost would handle a newborn child, he dusted a fine layer off dust off the top surface, letting it hang briefly in the air before turning back to face his customer. The shine in his eyes still there, but mediated by a wariness, accessing the young man's worth before any more was said.

"I sell only wands made with the three Supreme Cores," he said carefully, slowly, annunciating every word precisely with his eyes never leaving the youngster. His very aura screamed that this was important and Tom listened hungrily, refusing to look down at those three boxes that clearly held something few were allowed to see. "Unicorn hair, to make a loyal and stable wand that will serve you faithfully and not be veered from its path. Dragon heartstring, to make a powerful and flamboyant wand but temperamental and stubborn. Oh yes, a wand can be stubborn," he remarked with a wry smile at the disbelief on his customers face and the raised eyebrows. "And finally, phoenix feather, each completely unique, each with its own temperaments and abilities. Hard to impress and harder to master. You I suspect, mastered and impressed in equal measures. And the bond goes both ways."

He stopped briefly, with a slight glance once more at the three boxes lying so plainly on the counter.

"I sell wands with only three cores," he continued before the pause could become uncomfortable. "That does not mean I only use three cores to make a wand. I am a master of my art, an inventor and an artist. I am forever searching for materials which are stronger, more reliable, more individually tailored to a customer. I have many failures. Many, may failures. Some successes. And three, only three true triumphs. But not necessarily marketable triumphs. I sell only three cores, that does not mean I only have three cores to hand."

There was no doubt that the young man was more than interested, his eyes were fixated on Ollivander as if there was no one else in existence. His dark and piercing eyes staring hungrily as if willing more information to be forthcoming, his hands clenched slightly at his sides in anticipation. Slowly, carefully, the old man placed a wizened and weathered hand delicately on the first box.

"Thestral bone," he spoke so softly that Tom had to crane forwards to hear his words lest he miss even a snippet, inhaling in marked surprise at the revelation. "Powerful yet more temperamental even than dragons heartstring, it will not bend its will to those it does not see fit as deserving it. Difficult to use, near impossible to master, bonded for life and death."

His hand moved along to the next box, eyes never leaving the young wizard in front of him, watching the hunger and the fascination playing out on the others face.

"Merperson hair, gifted freely, not stolen or defiled. Unique and intelligent, has a free will of its own that will bend but not break to another's wishes. Impossible to create a standardised wand even with the hair of the same merperson. Even I am not certain of its true capabilities." Finally his hand moved to the final box, the last wand on the table and hesitated above it rather than touching it, the difference marked in comparison to his handling of the other two boxes. His voice was near a whisper. "Basilisk scale."

The old wandmaster stopped, unwilling or unable to say more although perhaps that was to be expected. The Basilisk was after all one of the world's most feared creatures, known to kill with a look and have a poison only counteracted by phoenix tears. Fifty foot monsters that haunted many a young witch or wizards nightmares. A live Basilisk hadn't been seen in well over a century and it was a wonder where Ollivander had managed to get hold of one. Potions Masters the world over would sell their mothers for a sliver of a basilisk scale, let alone a whole one.

"Taken from a juvenile Basilisk," Ollivander finally continued slowly, "before the scales have a chance to fully fuse to the hide of the Basilisk. It is possible to take a scale from a fully grown Basilisk perhaps from the new layer of skin, just before the old is shed but few would be foolhardy enough to try. Powerful, without a doubt powerful. Expressive, open to both flamboyant shows of magic as well as swift and implacable acts of control. Deadly, efficient, intelligent and loyal. A wand to be reckoned with."

The silence that filled the room after this last pronouncement seemed almost stifling in its intensity, neither party glanced away.

"Well then, boy?" Ollivanders voice was sharp and taut once more, in control of the situation. "I've chosen the woods you got on with best to bring out. Are you going to try one of them or are you going to stand all day gawping at me?"

A flush once more rose the boys pale cheeks and he glanced down at the boxes before nodding silently and holding his hand out to the older man. Ollivander first withdrew the Merperson wand, almost certain that it wouldn't be a match for this strange boy.

"Ebony and Merperson hair, twelve and a half inches," he said softly as he held it out for the young man. "Slightly springy."

This time he let the youngsters hand close fully around the wand, but after only a couple of sparks he took it back and placed it reverently back in it's box. Tom couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before that wand saw the light of day once more.

"No. Not right." He unclasped the next box and once more held it out gently for the youngster in front of him. "Black walnut and Thestral bone, fourteen inches, unyielding."

The young hand once more curled around the wand, the dark eyes fixed on it with an unmistakable intensity and fervour. Ollivander didn't get a chance to snatch the wand back however as within seconds of the grip solidifying on the wand there was an almighty crash and the young man flew forcibly backwards, landing in a rather undignified heap on his side. Standing unsteadily though, Ollivander was impressed to note that he still held the wand and it was completely undamaged.

"Finally," he all but whispered placing it back and unclasping the final wand box. "Acacia and Basilisk scale, thirteen inches, unbending."

This time the effect was nothing short of extraordinary. The shower of sparks reached up to the ceiling, falling down in soft snake-like patterns; a mix of green and silver with flashes of red and gold interspersed. But more impressively still was the glow that surrounded the young man as his hand fully closed on the wand; you would have been forgiven for thinking it a shield spell but Ollivander knew better. The wand had chosen its master.

"I told you that I hadn't failed to find a suitable wand for a customer yet," the wandmaster remarked softly. "Although you were perhaps nearly the first. But not today."

"How much will it cost, sir?" The young man asked with a certain amount of trepidation in his voice. "I would like to purchase this wand."

"I told you. I only sell wands with only one of three cores." Confusion wreathed the youngsters face, warring with both pride and concern. Pride that he had not been an average customer perhaps. Concern that his prize was to be wrestled out of his hands at the last moment, although Ollivander would hate to see anyone try. "That is an experimental prototype, not fit for sale. You may go."

"With the wand?"

"Of course with the wand," Ollivander snapped. "Go on then lad, I have better things to do than hang around out here. If you are looking for a new schooling place then I would recommend mailing Albus Dumbledore directly to see if there is a space free at Hogwarts next year. You can likely get Eyelops to send you an owl for a charge, you'll find parchment at Scribbulus." He glanced at the young man once more before turning away and shooting over his shoulder. "Rooms can be found at the Leaky Cauldron for a reasonable price I believe. Pleasure doing business with you."

He left Tom to see his own way out of the small store, only listening for the chime ringing that the boy had indeed left. It had been a long time since Ollivander had found himself flummoxed by a young witch or wizard. But he hadn't missed the gleam of anticipation as he'd brought out the Basilisk scale wand for the young man to hold; it had held a yearning that he hadn't seen in many a year.

He shook his head. The foolish fantasies of an old man.

That said, it wouldn't hurt to let Albus know.


	3. A Headmistress' Welcome

_Reviews are good. Reviews are very, very good. I like reviews a lot. Thank you so, so much to those of you who have reviewed this so far. This is a plot that interests me but it is constantly evolving in my head. Your review could easily change the way that this goes because I do not have a set plan and what is planned will likley be utterly different by the time I get to it. So if you have an opinion, write it! If you aren't sure about something then ask me! And most of all, I have proof read three times but I'm used to writing Minerva in the first person so if you catch an error, tell me!_

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 **Chapter 3: A Headmistress' Welcome**

Minerva McGonagall sat twirling her wand almost absent-mindedly as she looked at the set of letters in front of her. The first from a young man simply calling himself Thomas, requesting an interview with the Headmaster of Hogwarts in light of the fact that he finds himself in need of a place of education. Formally scripted in an old style calligraphic hand, both the words and the script seem archaic and out of place, which considering that she's often confiscated some muggle device called a biro and replaced it with a quill, said something in the wizarding world. The second letter, from none other than Albus himself and within that had been a third letter from Garick Ollivander sent to Albus.

Minerva of course would have recognised Albus Dumbledore's handwriting anywhere at a glance and had shifted the half read letter of this potential new student to one side to open it. The combination of the three letters was troubling though. Albus may have been removed from Hogwarts officially, but everyone knew that this school was his in heart, mind and soul regardless of what the governors said. After all, he said himself, "I will only have truly left the school when none here are loyal to me," and there are plenty loyal to him still. It was his school still. She was merely keeping the place afloat in his absence. As much as you could keep any school afloat when they were all so deep in grief.

The loss of a student is heart-breaking at any age and Minerva had seen enough of her old students die in the last war to know that all too well. Her thoughts often went back to her first class as Head of Gryffindor House, a class that was all but wiped out by the Wizarding War. But they at least were adults, to have lost a student so young and whilst under her own care cut Minerva to the quick. But what could Hogwarts do but carry on? Of course, all exams had been cancelled which was going to lead to chaos early next year as the O.W.L's and the N.E.W.T's still needed to be sat, but expecting any of the students to sit such an exam whilst in such a haze of grief and shock would be unthinkable.

But such musings would not make the letters in front of her vanish, any more than they would solve the seemingly insurmountable issues facing the school at this difficult time. And so Minerva bent her head to the fourth letter, from the Minister of Magic himself offering what consolations as he could on such an unthinkable tragedy striking the school, but behind that was an iron will that wanted to wrestle command from her. In addition to the teaching staff of the next year, Fudge was demanding that someone from the Ministry of Magic was brought in to supervise and prevent any such tragedy again. It was unthinkable for Hogwarts to be controlled by the Ministry and yet Minerva couldn't think of any think to be done to stop it. After all, a child had died.

But more immediately, she could not refuse a student a chance of an education if he was suitable and educated enough to join one of the Hogwarts classes. To do so would go against all the ethics of Hogwarts, and yet, as Albus had pointed out in his letter, a predisposal to a basilisk scale wand could predict a strong affinity with the Dark Arts and to take in someone who was potentially a danger to her students was simply unacceptable. She would have to interview the boy before making a decision, from what Garrick had written it sounded as though the boy had been formally disowned with a Kinship Curse. A terrible thing to go through at any age, let alone before you have even graduated.

She'd arranged the interview for this afternoon, but now couldn't help wondering whether she would have been better holding off for a bit longer. With more time perhaps she should have tracked his background down, but then, there wasn't much to go on. The name Thomas was hardly uncommon after all and his letter stated that he'd been home schooled so even if she had a full name school records couldn't be checked easily. It was a conundrum and Minerva knew she would just have to trust her instincts.

The sharp crack into the room foretold the small figure of a house elf appearing in the room. The only creatures who can apparate within the boundaries of Hogwarts they are therefore extremely useful as message carriers within the school and their extreme politeness makes them exceptionally good at welcoming guests. I have specifically trained a couple of them for this task and have been very pleased with the results.

"Mistress has a guest at the front gate," the small figure squeaks out, bowing deeply as he does so, his nose near touching the floor. "A young Master is at the gates. His name is Master Thomas. He says he has an appointment with Mistress McGonagall for 2pm. Would Mistress like Dustin to show the young Master through to Mistress' office?"

"Thank you, Dustin," Minerva answered the small figure, with a slight smile. He was one of the newer house elves that had been taken on in this role and she knew he had a tendency to get his words a bit muddled. "That was exceptionally well remembered. If you could bring him up to me and then organise some basic tea and pumpkin juice that would be most appreciated."

"Dustin shall do as Mistress commands."

He disappeared with another sharp crack and the Headmistress of Hogwarts and Wizardry waited patiently for the faint knock at my door to announce their presence. Within seconds a series of sharp cracks announced three house elves bearing trays of tea, pumpkin juice and an assortment of cakes that would do the Welcoming Feast proud. Basic is not a phrase that the house elves are familiar with, despite many of the staff's best efforts. Just after the elves have cracked back out the room, there's a quiet but firm rap on the door.

"Enter," the witch called and watched carefully as the young man who baffled Ollivander and so concerns Albus walked steadily through the door. A well-built, sturdy looking young man with thick blonde hair longer than most of the male students Minerva taught at Hogwarts.

"Headmistress McGonagall," he started, his words soft but well enunciated, a faint accent not quite fully swallowed behind his precise words. Minerva couldn't quite place it, but it certainly wasn't British. "I apologise sincerely for my error. I had not realised that Professor Dumbledore was no longer in command of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry when I penned my letter. I assure you, I meant no offence.

"No offence taken," Minerva replied easily, motioning the young man to sit in the chair provided. "You certainly weren't to know of the changes that Hogwarts has undergone in the last few months."

"I understand a girl has died?" The faintly quizzical tone had a note of what might have been reproach within in and Minerva looked up sharply, yet there was no sign of condemnation in his face. Simply an honest question. And she could hardly lie. The news had spread far beyond the walls of Hogwarts now. "A small girl died?"

"Yes," Minerva replied sadly, her eyes never leaving the youth in front of her. "I'm afraid that is the truth. A tragic occurrence and one from which the entire school is still reeling from."

"The newspaper reports are varied," the young man in front of her says slowly, his eyes searching the Headmistress' face for what reaction she could not be certain. "But none of them seem clear as to why the girl died. Is it true that Professor Dumbledore could have prevented the tragedy?"

"That is still being investigated," the Headmistress replied unable to hide the grief shadowing her face. It was true that it was being investigated, Filius would hear of nothing less and some of the best magical Healers and Aurors were investigating the death. "But there is nothing to currently suggest that Professor Dumbledore could have done anything to prevent the tragedy. We of course now will never know."

Minerva felt a spike of pain across her chest making her feel very much older than her near sixty years. She couldn't blame the young man for his questions, of course she couldn't. If she was thinking of joining a school where a girl had only just died, she'd want to know something about it. But the questions hit very close to the heart of the matter for the Headmistress of Hogwarts. Could Albus have prevented Ginny's death? Had he not been removed from his post by the cruel power plays of Lucius Malfoy, would the girl be alive today? Was she partially to blame?

No one could give her the answers to those questions and she didn't know. So many things could have perhaps changed the outcome and perhaps Albus being in charge instead of her would have been the crucial factor. The Weasley family were adamant through their tears that she had done all that she could have, but she could never be so sure. She knew that she would still be asking the same questions in twenty years time.

"I am sorry to have raised so many bad memories." The young man in front of her said sincerely. Minerva glanced up, ashamed to have let her emotions show so clearly on her face in front of this prospective student. "That was never my intention. I believe you should be interviewing me, not the other way around. I apologise."

Minerva couldn't help but admire the solemn grace that this young man seemed to have, an assurance that seemed unusual in one so young, and she could see why he had unnerved Ollivander. He didn't have the bearing of a seventeen year old despite his obvious youth, and although his language was oddly formal it did not seem stilted or unsure. He was an anomaly and Minerva was determined to solve at least some of this mystery. There was precious little else she could solve at the moment, after all.

"There is no need to apologise," Minerva replied with a hint of warmth in her tone. "But I appreciate your thoughtfulness. After all you have every right to be aware of recent tragic events if you are considering joining Hogwarts. The interview process goes both ways after all. But what brings you to Hogwarts?"

The young man's dark, expressive eyes glanced down at his hands before looking back up to Minerva, the only sign of a hint of unease being the slight crinkle on his forehead. The older woman couldn't help but feel a sense of empathy towards the young man; his accent alone said that he had come far and Ollivander was right, he had come alone.

"As I introduced myself in my letter, I am Thomas," the young man began stiffly, haltingly, although his voice picked up speed as he continued. "Through events beyond my control I find myself in need of a new place of education. I have a thorough background in Potions, Transfiguration and Charms with a strong emphasis on offensive and defensive spells and potions. My Herbology is a little more rusty but passable particularly of ingredients usable in Potions and my magical theory is more than adequate for practical purposes although it may of course require further attention to be exam ready."

His voice had gained confidence as he had reeled off the list and it was clearly a speech the boy had practiced in advance of this meeting, not that Minerva could blame him for that. A basis synopsis of his education so far was essential for her to know not only to know whether he'd be suitable for Hogwarts, but also if she was going to be able to place him in a year without leaving him to sink or swim. To join Hogwarts at such a late point, they needed to be able to communicate in order for him to succeed.

"That's quite an impressive resume," the older witch replied, eyebrows raised slightly and a crooked smile curving her lips. "Your letter said that you were home schooled; do you have any official certification of your abilities?"

"Unfortunately not although I will be happy to complete any testing process as required," the young man responded slowly with an obvious grimace at this flaw in his litany. "My father eschewed the official institutions and their ill-thought out criterion for assessing a young wizard's talents and abilities. I had thought to perhaps take the equivalent of the English N.E.W.T examinations once I was eighteen. But that plan did not quite go as anticipated, as you must be aware from the fact that I am requesting admittance to Hogwarts now."

"Why Hogwarts?" Minerva changed the topic slightly, without further questions. There were ways to test the truth of his claims but the young man would be a fool to outright lie, after all Potions, Charms and Transfiguration were easy skills to test. Even if the spells or brews he had learned were slightly different, or he had learned a different set entirely which would not be surprising, he should know how to create certain effects of abilities. "Not that I am displeased, but it is not your closest source of education I would hazard."

"Because Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry offers a wide curriculum untainted by the Dark Arts." The response was immediate and forthright, the young man's eyes met Minerva's own steadily, without any hesitation. "I did not wish for my learning to be dominated by curses, counter curses and the purification of blood. My father and I disagreed. Strongly."

"He disowned you?" Minerva asked softly, aware that this was a searching question but there were few reasons why he had only been introduced as Thomas, not with a house or even a surname. "That must have been some disagreement."

"The irony is that we had just finished studying Magical Disinheritance Curses. He could have done worse I suppose, although I find it hard to be grateful for the fact." Thomas' laugh was dark, bitter and older than his years, but he could not be blamed for that Minerva thought. Anyone would be bitter at being cast out from their home and family. "I understand that you do not take foreign students as a matter of course, but I find myself homeless and therefore country-less as it were."

Minerva studied the young man in front of her closely. He knew that this was a long shot, clearly, but Minerva was intrigued by him. And it wouldn't be the first time that Hogwarts had taken in refugees from neighbouring countries; it was common practice during the First Wizarding Wars at least, although that was admittedly a long time previous. But there was something else bothering her.

"That's the second time you've mentioned curses and the Dark Arts," the Headmistress asked pointedly. Albus had specifically warned her about the predisposal to the Dark Arts that a basilisk wand could potentially mean and she would be a fool to ignore this potential lead into the topic. Minerva had never counted herself as a fool. "I understand your acceptance that our curriculum is untainted by the Dark Arts, it is a topic we no longer teach other than defence. Would you be able to expand on your knowledge?"

Those dark, expressive eyes met her own and held them for a long moment as if measuring her up before responding. There was a measure of respect in them that Minerva was not certain how she had yet earned, unless it was by her refusal to sheer away from difficult topics. And perhaps that was exactly it, for his response was not what she had anticipated.

"I know more curses, hexes and jinxes than the majority of wizards have more than even an inkling about by the time they are forty," he replied simply with an easy confidence that seemed like it belonged to someone much older by far. His gaze never left hers and it was as if she was now being judged on her reaction. "Many of the curses I know would be illegal if used, others are at best on the grey side of the British law."

Minerva had expected the young man to duck the question or at least to wriggle around it, come out with some plausible yet vague response so as not to impact his chances of being admitted to the school. She certainly hadn't expected such a bold and forthright response admitting exactly what Albus had been most afraid of. If she allowed this young man into Hogwarts, she would be allowing a great deal of knowledge about forbidden subjects to arrive with him and that knowledge would not be under her control.

"Most importantly however," Thomas continued, dark eyes never leaving Minerva's as he continued speaking, almost seeming to tap into her concerns. "I recognise that very few curses are wholly dark and next to none are wholly light regardless of what the British Ministry of Magic may wish to portray. That does not mean that I have any intention of spreading or using knowledge of the Dark Arts. I cannot be responsible for what I have been taught by my elders. I can however be responsible for how I use it."

"That's certainly a responsible attitude to have," Minerva was put at ease somewhat by his open honesty about his education and his knowledge of the Dark Arts, which was far preferable than any attempt to cover or hide it. It impressed her that he hadn't even attempted to dissemble. But it didn't completely allay her fears. "I'd be interested to hear more about your views on light magic though, if you'd be willing to expand on that for me."

"There is rarely such a thing as purely white spell, as even the simplest and supposedly most harmless of spells can be used against in such a way to make them dangerous." He responded earnestly and with a confidence that belied his youth. "Lumos would be able to blind if overpowered despite its simplicity for example and a basic levitation charm could cause significant danger is used inappropriately. Nothing is as simple as black and white."

"You've clearly put quite a lot of thought into this," the old witch responded with a genuine smile and no hint of condescension towards her younger guest. "It's an interesting theory which must have taken some exploring."

A close observer would be able to notice the shade of extra warmth in her tone and the interest that had alighted in her eyes, it wasn't often after all that a student came to Hogwarts with an interest in the theoretical aspects of magic. This was a talent she would be able to expand upon and perhaps make an academic or even a Professor out of the lad.

If there was one thing that Thomas was certain off, it's that he was an excellent observer.

"I'm apologise if I have over-stepped. It is an area which has interested me for some time," Thomas said more shyly a slight blush rising on his cheeks, he glanced down briefly at his hands before continuing. "I believe the intent of magic should be used in conjunction with the incantation itself in order to decide the shading spectrum both legally and practically. There isn't just black and white but a whole variety of grey in the middle which isn't taken into account in any of the main legal systems worldwide. The British system is one of many that have forced through black and white measures which are at best unfruitful and at worst utterly futile."

He looked up at her as if to see whether she was interested in him continuing, to which Minerva simply waved her hand freely. This wasn't the first time she had heard this kind of theory by a long mile. She'd been privy to many of Filius' enthusiastic detailings of his theories and the implications for the Magical World. One of them was at least very similar to what the young man in front of her was espousing, that there should be no such thing as an Unforgivable Incantation as the intent mattered more than the curse.

"With the blackest of magic such as the Cruciatus Curse," the young man continued at her nod and wave, his accent gaining slightly more prominence as he warmed to the theme, "the incantation alone means virtually nothing if the intent to harm is not there. The Cruciatus Curse is one of the few magics in which the only possible intent is to harm with no potential for positive use, so surely that should be the boundary line. You could do more damage with an ill-meant Leviosa than with a half-hearted Cruciatus."

"So you are of the mind-set that there should be no such thing as an Unforgivable Incantation?"

"Oh no, no such thing," he corrected hastily. "I just believe that the boundaries should be better set and that there are legal uses for nearly all magic. There was some exceptions of course and the Cruciatus is one of them. Some of the Kinship curses are just as fiendishly and unremittingly cruel for example and there are of course others. But for most curses the intent should be more important than the incantation. But even a failed Cruciatus means that the intent is not there, no damage will be done. Should that be considered an Unforgivable also?"

"You have clearly been taught well," Minerva couldn't hide the admiration that crept into her tone. The boy debated better than most adult wizards, let alone those of his own age range. It was more than impressive. He had either been taught or had perhaps learned himself how to critically think about issues set in front of him rather than blindly trusting the words of his superiors. That was not a skill to sniff at. "It must have been some argument to cause your disinheritance after such schooling."

For the first time the young man's eyes left Minerva's own and found the floor, his foot rubbing small circles on the carpet in much the same fashion that many of her younger students did when nervous or frightened. It was such an unthinking gesture of vulnerability that the older witch felt almost ashamed of her prying into what was clearly still very fresh and very painful memories. As Headmistress of Hogwarts though she needed to know what she was likely to be letting herself in for and the boys sensibilities were simply not a good enough reason for her to turn a blind eye.

The silence stretched long enough that Minerva was about to follow it up with a more direct question when finally the young man met her eyes once again. The anguish that couldn't quite be covered was clear in his face although his voice when he spoke was steady and clear.

"My father disagreed vehemently with my decisions for the future," he remarked coldly but Minerva didn't miss the flash of pain that crossed his eyes at the memory. No anger yet, although she was sure that would follow. Whether this closed off young man would share that anger with others was another question entirely. It would be a pity to see him dragged down by thoughts of vengeance that were unlikely to come to fruition. "I wished to follow some paths in the purest of white magic; healing and therapy work amongst others. My father was not convinced by my explanation that I wished to have a full and balanced knowledge of the different magic forms."

His eyes once more dropped to his feet and he swallowed hard before continuing. Glancing back up at the stern witch in front of him, he seemed to take a certain amount of reassurance from the lack of judgement or pity in her expression. Out of all the emotions, pity was the worst. Pity was condescension without help; to pity someone you were looking down on them without even truly noticing that you were doing so. Pity was an emotion he couldn't stand.

"The argument got out of hand and I lost my temper. Having declared a lifelong interest in the Art of Healing rather than the Dark Arts, my father declared that he would rather have no son than one who would turn his back on his family lineage," Thomas continued almost in a monotone, refusing to allow any emotion into his voice. "Things deteriorated from there. I should not have lost my temper, it was foolish and unproductive. I said things that would have been better left unsaid and my father did things that there is no way to come back from."

There didn't seem much point in pushing the point further considering that Minerva could fill in the blanks without too much difficulty. An equivalent perhaps would be the son of Lucius Malfoy declaring openly that he had no interest in bloody purity or long-held family values to instead work with St. Mungo's. Even without the prospective of a scion of the Malfoy name doing something as mundane and lowly as working, the rejection of the Dark Arts would cause shock waves of devastation throughout the Malfoy family and young Draco would likely be in need of new lodgings himself.

"So, what year would you be looking to join?" The topic change was sudden and sharp, but the young man in front of her quickly hid any confusion or disorientation that might have shown with an easy smile. It lightened his face considerably and made him look younger and less care-worn. Something about it made Minerva smile back although she wouldn't be able to say why. "You would be seventeen, I estimate?"

"Yes, I have had my seventeenth birthday which would place me within Hogwarts seventh years age range," the youngster said carefully and precisely. "However, seventh year is the N.E.W.T examination year is it not? So perhaps it would be preferable to start in sixth year. Otherwise I would be taking the examinations without receiving the benefit of the entire learning curriculum which does not seem wise. Particularly as I would be interested in taking up some areas of study that I have not been able to cover in as much detail as I would like."

Minerva nodded thoughtfully. The boy had promise; that was without a shadow of a doubt. And there was certainly nothing set in stone about Hogwarts only taking children from the UK although that was the usual. It was extremely rare for requests from other countries to come and often or not it was a parent or youngster having a tantrum at their school, resolved long before anything could come of the Hogwarts request. Few if any parents were willing to move to the United Kingdom in order to have their child educated at Hogwarts, and that was all that was really required; the child and legal guardians must be residing in the UK at the time of schooling.

Providing that his magical abilities were as advanced as he had stated then there was no reason at all for Minerva to reject Thomas' request. And there was no denying that he would be an asset to Hogwarts both magically and academically. Albus' disquiet was unnerving, but she could hardly reject the boy based on a feeling by a man miles away who hadn't laid eyes on him. That was beyond absurd.

"On the condition that you are willing to undergo a testing process to ensure that you are indeed proficient in Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts and Herbology, I am willing to offer you a conditional offer to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Minerva finally said formally, watching with no small measure of satisfaction at the unashamed glee crossing the young mans face. "I wouldn't expect you to necessarily be proficient in Astronomy or British History of Magic although you will be expected to take the classes and work to catch up the difference."

This news didn't seem to dim the young mans enthusiasm nor put a damper on his grin.

"That seems perfectly reasonable, Headmistress McGonagall," he responded formally. "And of course I am willing to undertake whatever tests are deemed necessary. May I ask who will be administering the tests?"

"The Professor responsible for that class will be the examiner in most cases," Minerva replied with a slight smile. "I will be responsible for Transfiguration, Professor Snape for Potions, Professor Flitwick for Charms and Professor Sprout for Herbology. We are currently between Professors for Defence Against the Dark Arts so that will be administered by either myself or Professor Snape."

He nodded with a slightly blank look, which was no more than Minerva would have expected. After all, the names would mean virtually nothing to him. But he would get to know them soon enough.

"You will be offered a choice of elective courses to enrol on providing you prove proficient in the testing process."

Of which Minerva had nearly no doubt that he would be. Herbology might be the only tricky subject as he had admitted it wasn't his strongest suit and the native plants may be slightly different here. Pomona would be fair though; she always was. If he could prove sufficient knowledge of herbology of any description, she was sure the kindly woman would mark him clear.

"There are a variety of elective courses and they do change from year to year depending on teaching availability and interest levels. You may be interested to know that there will be an elective subject on healing magic and the human body." His eyes lit up with an intensity that Minerva had rarely seen in one so young. "It will be the first time Hogwarts has offered this course so it will depend on interest levels as to whether it is continued to a N.E.W.T level, but it will certainly be open to the sixth and seventh years as a first year N.E.W.T course."

"That interests me very much indeed." His smile was clearly genuine and Minerva couldn't help but smile back. "When can I take these tests? The sooner I know whether you are willing to take me on as a student, the sooner I can make preparations and organise course material."

"I will have to give the other Professors a certain amount of time to prepare," Minerva replied. She'd been tempted to offer him the chance immediately but she could imagine Severus' face if she dropped that on him with no warning. "I will send an owl to the Leaky Cauldron with prospective dates."

"I will be able to make whatever dates you have available," he replied with a wry smile. "I have little else to do with my time after all. Could I trouble you for a copy of the course book list as well though; I can pick up some of the required texts and start reading them ahead of time that way."

"Certainly, I'll send an owl with that list as well," Minerva's smile was not wry. A keen student indeed, this one really could be an asset to the school. "It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance Master Thomas."

"And yours too, Headmistress McGonagall," he proffered his hand carefully, almost ready to snatch it back if it were to be refused, but the older witch shook it gladly. "I will patiently await your owl."

And with that he was gone, heading out the door as smoothly as he had entered, heading straight down the corridor. Minerva blinked, surprised. She had anticipated calling the house elf Dustin to show her guest out as Hogwarts could be a maze at the best of times. She hoped the young man did not become lost. Standing up quickly she moved to the door to call him back, but he had already disappeared around the corner and Minerva's old bones wouldn't be fit for chasing him around the castle. At worst she supposed he'd run into a staff member or a ghost eventually who'd be able to set him right. It would be quite an introduction to Hogwarts. She just hoped that it wouldn't be Peeves.

A strange boy, undoubtedly. But there was also no doubt that he could be a strong asset indeed if he was as proficient as he stated and as keen as he seemed. He was certainly intelligent.

Minerva left the room to round up the other Professors. A diversion at the moment would be good for all concerned she thought.


End file.
